Almost Gone
by DakotaOfGallifrey
Summary: Sherlock has gone missing with out a trace, leaving John behind. But what will happen when Sherlock returns and John has moved on as if he never existed?


**Disclaimer: I do not in any way own in any way Sherlock or any characters in it. **

* * *

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

John looked up from his laptop. Sherlock was sitting across from him, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. He was starring unblinkingly at him.

"Let's go," he said as he stood up. He smiled at John and went to retrieve his coat.

John furrowed his brow, annoyed at Sherlock for expecting him to follow him blindly to god-knows-where. He did not move; he simply starred at his flat mate with dissatisfaction.

"Come on. Dinner. Let's go," he said. John closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table in front of him. He had been wishing for a night of relaxation, but it seemed that was not going to happen. The doctor sighed; but at least he was not dragging him along to a crime scene this time. Then again, maybe dinner could be just as relaxing as fiddling with his computer.

John stood up and then paused to look at the other man. "Do you really need a jacket?" John began as the detective slipped the last button of his coat into place.

He ignored John's remark and tied his scarf around his neck. "Sherlock, it's June."

"Yes, I am very well aware if that," Sherlock replied shortly. He pushed through the door of the flat with haste and began down the steps, leaving John straggling behind him.

By the time he made it outside, Sherlock was already hailing a cab. He thought vaguely for a moment that it was strange for Sherlock to be in such a rush for dinner. It was still early in the night and they had quite a while before any restaurant would be closing; but over the time he had spent with the detective, he had learned to think little of any abnormal behavior. He was probably just bored. An hour without a case and Sherlock was itching for more.

They entered the cab and Sherlock directed the cab driver to their destination, a small diner on the other side of the city. John looked over to him as the car started to roll down the street, but his eyes were closed tightly and his hands folded and pressed against his lips. He was deep in thought and John decided it would be best for both of them not to bother him. John rested his head against the window of the cab and closed his eyes. He listened to the soft noise of the car and the muffled hum of London on the outside as he slowly sunk into sleep.

* * *

The screeching of tires.

The jolt of the cab driver's attempted swerve.

The impact.

And haze that quickly funneled into darkness.

All in thirty seconds. No, less than thirty seconds. Fifteen maybe.

All John remembered seeing was fuzzy and unclear. But one aspect shown through clearer than any other. The blood. On his hands, staining his shirt; warmth running down his face. His own or someone else's, he couldn't tell.

His memory of Sherlock was the cloudiest. Multiple variations all seemed true. No one clearer than the rest, all blended together smoothly but undeniably separate.

One vision was of him sitting straight forward, eyes part closed and head back. He was completely fine as far as John could tell.

One where he was completely turned away from him, all John could see was dark curls and a slice of the pale skin of his neck prevailing through the black. His well being inconclusive.

Another, and by far the most haunting, him slumped forward with wide eyes and trails of blood painting his face and painting the blue of his scarf a dark maroon. Blue green eyes trained directly on John. Mouth slack and body limp.

* * *

John's wake up was a slow fade into consciousness. Not a confused hazy one, but a slow comfortable one, almost as if he was experiencing his senses in order of choice. First, the feeling of blankets under his fingers and over his legs. His head sunken in to a ridiculously fluffy pillow that puffed up by the sides of his face. Next, came the noise of machines and soft footsteps, whispers and the shuffling of papers. And finally, sight. The opening of his eyes, the white room with pale blue sheets and the glass windows framing the curtain that acted as a door. He could see a nurse at a large half circle desk busy with paperwork through the glass. He looked to his side, there was a stack of cards and some flowers on the night stand. Also, a pager with a printed note, "Press for nurse."

He reached for the pager, but then decided against it. Some time to collect his thoughts before would be good before he was prodded by nurses and doctors.

He reached to pick up the stack of cards. His joints felt stiff and his arms heavy. He shuffled through them all without opening any. Molly, Lestrade, Sarah, Donovan, Keith, Anderson... No Sherlock. He felt a sinking nag in his chest.

He sighed at himself. Of course he wouldn't have gotten one from Sherlock. He was in the car too.

He was in the car too.

Panic slowly wrapped around him. The visions of Sherlock surfaced swirled around in his head. He buzzed a nurse in.

"Mr. Watson, you're up! How are you feeling?" The nurse had a cheesy fake smile plastered on her face and her voice was too cheery. John, in his medical training as an attending at a hospital, had witnessed this sugar coating first hand all too much. He always thought it a bit misleading. He could be out of there by noon or paralyzed from the waist down and he would be greeted the same. He twitched his legs under the blankets for self assurance.

"Fine. May I ask you, do you know the condition of Sherlock Holmes? He should have been admitted around the same time as I," John asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I wouldn't be able to tell you that," she said and pretended to read the clipboard in her hand with a sympathetic look, "doctor patient confidentiality."

"But-," John began, only to be cut off.

"I'm only doing what I've been instructed to do."

John sighed. "Well, could I go visit him? He's my friend, you know."

"I'm sorry. You have to stay in your bed," the nurse told him.

She continued speaking, "You're pretty lucky. Only a few broken ribs and a minor concussion. A lot of people come in here from a crash like yours and don't come out."

John was tired of the nurses voice and fake sympathy. He asked if he could have some privacy to nap. Reluctantly she agreed and shuffled out, leaving the clipboard she had brought in behind. She had muttered something about the doctor being in soon before she left.

John sunk farther into the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sort out what was reality and what was not. Sherlock was probably fine. He was Sherlock after all.


End file.
